


Are you thinking of me now?

by howbadcanmyficsbe



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Seine, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:11:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23734078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howbadcanmyficsbe/pseuds/howbadcanmyficsbe
Summary: Drumming fingers on his book, Valjean crossed one leg over the other, fixing his gaze on the door. That night, Javert was sure to be home far past when darkness would fall on Paris.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 3
Kudos: 84





	Are you thinking of me now?

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Methuselah" by San Fermin.

Books alone had become insufficient company. It felt somewhat hollow, not to read aloud or to take pleasure in the simple presence of another, to feel another body in the room. Somehow, Valjean supposed, Javert had inexplicably become a part of his life, a life that always revolved around its flexibility, its detachment. Strange to find himself now so attached, so tethered to another who would, by all accounts, be stationary as a rock. It was oddly fitting for a man always so stubborn, who would more likely break than bend, to plant himself so firmly to Valjean.

Drumming fingers on his book, Valjean crossed one leg over the other, fixing his gaze on the door. That night, Javert was sure to be home far past when darkness would fall on Paris. Javert had taken to staying out later after his shifts, making sure some of the younger gamins had a dry place to sleep for the night, pointing them to work they could find in the morning. It was an effort, he assured, so that the boys would not find temptation in stealing, only so that Javert’s time might be better occupied than chasing children around the streets. There were “real criminals,” he said, who were more deserving of his attentions. The thought made Valjean’s heart swell. And so he waited in the parlor, leafing through a book without reading any of the words, thinking only of what was absent.

As this was hardly the first time, Valjean could imagine how the night would go. It would be a late hour when Javert arrived home, his affect weary but pleased to see Valjean at their doorstep. He would kiss him, take his hat and coat as Javert would mumble a summary of a long day. Valjean would hum acknowledgements as he poured them both cups of tea while Javert would lean against the kitchen table, asking of Valjean’s comings and goings. They would nibble on cheese and bread, Javert having already eaten a meager meal at the station house.

Javert’s eyes would linger on him, staring with such a look of adoration as he spoke of giving alms and calling upon Cosette. They would stand comfortably until Javert would take their dishes and wash them in the basin, the sound of porcelain clinking softly. His hands would be purposefully gentle, for he had caught onto the way Valjean would flinch at startling noises. He was attuning to these things, bit by bit, without Valjean even consciously noticing. Such small things had built up, tightening the knot he felt in his chest each time Javert let out glimpses of the green growing through the cracks in his heart.

In a fit of tenderness, he would walk to Javert, running a hand over his lean arm. Javert would stiffen, only at first, then soften as Valjean would perch his hands atop his waist, resting his head against his shoulder blade. A low chuckle would come from Javert as his hand would cover one of Valjean’s, still wet from the task at hand. Only then would he wrap himself fully around Javert’s middle. Feeling the fullness of Javert’s form, the weight he had gained since his recovery, he would sigh and press himself against him, holding him close as could be. A knee would come between his thick thighs and his hand would lower as Javert would let out one of the most obscene sounds in his memory—

Valjean started then, swallowing as he stared blankly at the page before him. Suddenly, mercilessly, he was aware of the tightness in his trousers and, with a hitch of his breath, he lifted the book from his lap. No sooner did he catch a glimpse of the bulge at the fork in his legs did he look away, covering it again safely below the book. Chastising himself for sinking to such distraction, he resolved to keep reading, to wait patiently until the night, where these things were meant to stay. It was scarcely ten minutes later when he sighed deeply, lifting his gaze to the ceiling. He had stared at the words in heated frustration as none would string together in sentences, and his arousal continued to call for attention. Helplessly, Valjean looked out the window. Twilight barely tinted the sky; it would be perhaps hours before Javert’s return.

It was with a most reluctant hand that he quietly set the book aside. Allowing himself a furtive glance of his surroundings, he opened his trousers, letting his half-hard prick into the open air. Unable to stomach the sight of himself, he covered his eyes with one hand and whimpered as the other closed around his shaft, spreading the bead of wet and coaxing it into full hardness.

Many years had passed since Valjean could last remember himself taking himself in hand. Toulon had beaten any want for it out of his soul. Until Javert, he had indeed lived an utterly chaste existence, only discovering the joys his flesh could provide in the infancy of their budding friendship that was no longer simple friendship. It was as if he were again a teenager, suppressing a hunger for what he could never hope to hold to. The urgency of feeding seven children was far more pressing. But now, there was nothing weighing on his shoulders, if he only allowed himself a comfortable life, a sentiment that Cosette and Javert would just as well force upon him.

At the thought of Javert he let out a dazed noise, the way he would insist on moving things about in the garden, to reach for a book on the highest shelf in the study. How restless he was to give himself over, how flustered he was when Valjean would so rarely return the enthusiasm. It was an understatement that Javert was eager in their nighttime activities, and while Valjean wanted it just as much, Javert was nearly always the one to instigate. He was always the first, kissing him, holding him in the most intimate of ways, guiding Valjean between his legs. Perhaps it was cowardice that kept him from being so brazen with Javert; perhaps it was the constricting feeling overwhelming his chest each treasured time the man would smile his ugliest smile in a moment of genuine mirth. The way he so quickly melted when Valjean so unexpectedly took the lead. How his breath would stutter and his chest flush—

Valjean let out a smothered cry. His hand was wet and he was left gasping, slack in the armchair. It was a long while before he could summon the courage to move his hand from his eyes and clean himself. As he tucked himself away and returned, slightly flustered, to the novel, he settled to keep the memory stowed away, better left to be forgotten. Nothing but a burst of energy in need of quieting, certainly unbecoming of a man his age. From then on, he was sure he could find restraint, to not let his musings run so wildly, to keep his hands idle.

The following time, not even a week later, he came to the thought of Javert’s mouth working around him.

The time after, he found release after a few short strokes at the idea of Javert’s tongue inside him.

* * *

It was earlier in the night than Javert had thought that he would arrive to Valjean’s home—_their _home, he corrected himself. Though it was still entirely dark, Javert had finished much of the day’s paperwork expeditiously. Not out of any wish for efficiency, but out of a desire to return home. It was peculiar, but nonetheless welcome.

After a short, off-duty patrol to assess the status of the local gamins, he made his way through the city. Though the day had ended somewhat earlier than expected, he still found himself weary with exhaustion as he reached the front gates of the house. All he wished to do was fall into bed, into Valjean’s arms.

As he unlocked the door, he was puzzled to find that Valjean did not wait in the entryway. This was not an expectation necessarily, but it was more common than not for Valjean to greet him upon arrival. Removing his hat and coats, he strode into the kitchen, finding it just as empty. Valjean had either gone to bed, or had simply lost himself in a book in the parlor. The latter was the more likely of the two.

As he approached the parlor, he could surmise a fire still burned in the room, its orange tones dancing through the cracks in the door. Straining his senses, he could make out only a distant, muffled sound behind the parlor doors. Had Valjean spent another night waiting for his return? Presumably, he had fallen asleep again, ensuring his back would be ruined by the harsh angles of the horrible chair he jovially refused to replace. Javert sighed, a quiet admonishment ready on his tongue as he silently opened the door. He would wake him gently as he could, scold him, and guide him to bed. Instead, the sight behind the door instantly killed any thoughts of rebuke.

Surely the Valjean before him was not reality. It could not be Valjean reclining indecently on the settee, legs splayed. Javert’s eyes went from the hand covering his eyes, to the lips from which low sounds emanated, his rucked up shirt, the open trousers exposing the most intimate, pale parts of his skin, finally to his other hand slowly working himself. The flush, leaking erection curved against his belly. At that moment, Javert could make out what Valjean had been murmuring so fervently as his volume pitched upward.

“_Javert,_” he breathed almost desperately as he half-heartedly attempted to cover his mouth.

And suddenly, as hand his hand fell from his visage, Valjean was staring at him, wide-eyed, every part of him frozen. Just as much, Javert found himself incapacitated as a statue, standing stupidly in the doorway.

This was not the first time Javert had seen these parts of Valjean, far from it. The two had done much more in the deepest hours of the night, tentatively exploring one another, hesitant but eager. Even so, there was something in Javert that tugged at him, a doubt that lingered. Perhaps this was yet another instance of Valjean’s endless pity, that he saw this insatiable hunger in Javert and chose to indulge him; perhaps it was a bid to prevent him from returning to the allure of the Seine, to sate the begging dog at the table. No, it could not be that his name had slipped so easily from Valjean’s mouth, that the thought of him had brought Valjean to the brink. Yet it did, and it had.

The room was achingly silent, and the only sounds which remained echoed in Javert’s ear like gunshots, the pop of the fire and Valjean’s labored breaths. A pause hung between them, suffocating air that would not reach Javert’s lungs; he felt as if every gasp from Valjean was a breath on his behalf. After a moment that could have been years, Valjean’s face flushed even further as he made to cover himself with his shirt, to hide the damning evidence in a fumbled, frantic motion. An apology was surely eminent, and it would all be over. They would go to sleep and it would never be mentioned again, left to the dark nights that went unacknowledged outside their bed. Javert’s voice felt foreign as the words left his lips, unbidden.

“Keep going,” he said in a low growl, perhaps a groan, at a volume barely audible. It was difficult then to hear anything outside of Valjean’s slowing pants that filled his head, filled his stomach with an undeniable warmth. Was it true, that the same heat pooled in Valjean, that it drove him to such base lust? To call Javert’s name like the most reverent prayer?

Valjean’s look of pure mortification shifted quickly; shock became embarrassment, embarrassment became contrition, contrition became astonishment, and finally astonishment became uncertainty as his hand lifted his shirt again, exposing his dark prick in its entirety. It was softened somewhat, diminished from the shock of it all. Almost shyly, he wrapped his calloused hand around himself again and covered his eyes with the other as choked cry escaped him, fading out in a stifled whimper.

As wet sounds began to mix with moans, Javert stared uselessly. Of anyone in the world, Javert had seen all of Valjean. Javert knew him as the the most vile of men in Toulon, the most venerated as mayor, fighting to save innocents, brought to the edge of survival covered in the filth of humanity; he knew him as the most tender and uncertain of lovers. In that new, fragile state of their relations, Javert was still learning so much of this man, uncovering and dredging up the ugliest and loveliest parts of Jean Valjean, things that would have been left to rot. All the nightmares, lost as faded shadows in the dead of night. All that love, left to decay in its excess, love that could only spill over without a vessel, uncontrolled in its earnest veracity. It was all overflowing before him then, unconfined and sickly as he murmured Javert’s name like a dying man.

He had no memory of moving to Valjean’s side, but there he was, staring over an unseeing Valjean. Still clasped atop his eyes, he hand blocked his vision, as if the shame of witnessing his own arousal was too much to bear. He was beautiful, sweat shining on his skin and hair in disorderly tangles of curls. It was just like him to refuse to see it, how beautiful he was. The loosened cravat around his neck offered a hint of skin beneath, mottled ever so slightly. Ignoring the pained reveries that came with a contemplation of their origins, Javert took the cloth away entirely, baring his neck and letting him breathe freely.

“J-Javert,” Valjean managed between gasps. Javert’s hand found his chin and tipped it upward as his lips ghosted around Valjean’s ear. His own breath was far from measured, coming in heavier, thicker as he listened closely.

“What exactly were you thinking of, then?” Javert asked quietly. It was a provocation, of course, but he also wanted to know most ardently what Valjean’s mind had conjured to bring him to such a state. The very thought made his mouth dry, his knees imperceptibly shake.

It should not have been possible, but the heat in Valjean’s face deepened, his ears entirely red against his stark white curls.

“I—ah,” he rasped. “I-“ he trailed off, canting his hips up slightly as anguish crossed the features Javert could still see.

Before he could think better of it, Javert was, as gently as he could manage, taking Valjean by both his wrists. His arms were slack with drunken pleasure as Javert regarded him, setting his hands upon his chest and lightly cradling them with his own.

“Look at me,” Javert said. It was not so much an order as a plea. There was calm in his tone, but his heart raced at the sight of Valjean, threatening to burst from his chest. “Tell me what you need. Anything.”

It seemed to pain him, to look upon Javert at that moment, to acknowledge the heavy weight resting on his belly. But still, Javert was determined, determined to wring as much pleasure as he could from Valjean, to make up for a lifetime without. Between shallow pants, Valjean all but wrestled the words from his uncooperative mouth.

“Anything?” Valjean said quietly, breathlessly.

Javert nodded, stroking the side of Valjean’s palm with his thumb. There was a long pause as a struggle seemed to play out in Valjean’s mind until he looked to Javert again.

“Your—ah,” he breathed, gasping for a few moments before finding his voice again. “Your t-tongue.” His hips jerked in time with the muted cry that slipped out.

With a sure smirk, Javert lifted his hand and kissed it lightly before returning it.

“Of course,” he said easily, already beginning to situate himself on the settee at Valjean’s feet. He quickly discarded his waistcoat and stock while Valjean looked away, heat trapped in his face. As soon as he had propped himself between Valjean’s legs, mouth poised, he stopped. 

Once again, Valjean’s hand had returned to cover his eyes, shielding the terrible red across his cheeks. Worry struck him, and Javert had to remain entirely silent to hear him as he spoke.

“Wait,” he whispered, “…not there.”

For once, Javert found himself unable to speak, immobile as the question of_ where _stuck in his throat, leaving him to stare dumbly while Valjean hid beneath his splayed hand.

Something must have left his mouth, a noise of surprise, a question, as Valjean spoke again. It could not have been that he said the word “lower,” for that was too much to comprehend, too unimaginable to contemplate. His mouth was dry again, far too dry as he stared at Valjean. Timidly, he peeked out of the window between his fingers, gauging Javert’s reaction, or lack thereof.

Valjean had been thinking of Javert between his thighs, sweeping his tongue in places they had only tentatively talked of. It was natural, Valjean’s hesitancy, and Javert doubted he even wanted it. Silly of him, he thought, to expect that Valjean desired such carnal things. Surely, he only feigned any interest for Javert’s sake. Yet there he was, asking Javert, _fantasizing _about Javert knowing him in that most intimate way. Making such wanton noises—no, bringing himself off to the idea of it.

“Lower,” Javert repeated. “Yes, I can—I believe I can manage.” And already he was fumbling with Valjean’s trousers with shaking hands.

Still, Valjean could not look at him as his breath came in harder, his chest heaving and cock twitching with anticipation. There was a twinge of doubt in Javert’s chest, looking at him while he let Valjean’s legs hook over his shoulders. Everything was new with Valjean; it went without saying. Years without knowing these intimacies did not make a fool of Javert, but the act was still novel. It was difficult, but alluring, practice, to learn the ways to best bring one another to that breaking point. How best to bring Valjean to the threshold where his fingers were clenching bunches of sheets in ecstasy. In many respects, Javert was confident in his ability to draw pleasure out of Valjean. This, however, was unfamiliar.

Much like the very first time Javert sunk himself onto Valjean, he was entirely taken by the idea that it was not to Valjean’s liking, that Javert was insufficient. How was one to meet the expectations swimming impossibly through Valjean’s head? For Javert would always be lacking, as he was in every sense. He could never properly express himself, never be quite tender enough in his touch; it was against his nature to do so. A guard dog is not bred for kindness. Yet he wanted only for Valjean to feel everything good in the world, to insist upon him his love, however inexperienced it was. If he could simply redeem any deficiency with fervor, with devotion, he would do so as surely as the stars at night, the sun in the morning.

The sun came to mind when he looked up, Valjean’s head cresting above his stomach. He was tense now, a state he hoped to alleviate as he licked his lips. It was only with the encouragement of Valjean’s hardness, the quiver of his thighs that he nosed into the sensitive skin where the leg met his groin. A groan issued from Valjean, and he soldiered on, holding more firmly onto his flanks as he shifted. There had been several occasions where Javert had done the very same thing, teasing around Valjean with his tongue in his inner thighs. The way the scratch of his whiskers drew whimpers from Valjean was an intoxicating prospect. Perhaps it was in those moments past that Valjean conjured the image. How many times had Valjean thought of the idea, hand around his own prick? He lingered there for a moment, savoring the small sounds won from Valjean. Finally he found the will, and pressed his tongue tentatively into his hole.

The sound that came from above could only be described as a scream; Javert tensed, lifting his head and looking on with concern at Valjean. He was helpless, scrabbling with his hands and drawing in sharp breaths. Never before had he looked such a mixture of utter shame and complete bliss. His hand eventually found Javert’s head and grabbed a fistful of his hair, gently, but still forcefully, urging him downward again with a shaking exhale.

There was a murmur of apology that quickly melded into a guttural moan as Javert swept his tongue in again, and Valjean was pressing his head down harder. Stuttering sighs filled the room, louder than Javert thought Valjean capable of. Gaining a rhythm, he tried to work in deeper, everything becoming slick with spit and sweat as Valjean rolled his hips. The vigor of it forced him to dig his fingers into Valjean, the pools of skin where his hip bones met softness.

If Valjean could not speak before, he now could not seem to contain himself. It was always an effort to coax noise out of Valjean; even in the most heated moments, he was tight-lipped with the expression of passion. Almost as if Javert had hit a raw nerve, words spilled out of Valjean like frantic, disconnected prose.

“Oh—oh that, ah—_Javert, _good God. Please, like that agai—_yes, _oh.”

Any trace of embarrassment had melted from his voice, leaving only exposed and wanting cries. Tightness had left him; Valjean was boneless under Javert’s licks, rocking into him in time.

“I... can’t believe it,” Valjean said, between what could have been sobs. “Every night—ah—you’ve been away I... _oh. _To see you—God—like this—“

Javert looked up then, spit dribbling down his chin; he found it impossible to care as he stole a look at Valjean. Before him his prick was full, leaking against his belly. He was sprawled, no longer covering his eyes, staring at Javert with such an expression of vulnerability, of what must have been trust, love. There were tears at the corners of his eyes, overflowing love made tangible. At the absence, Valjean took a handful of his hair, pulling it halfway from his queue in desperation. And it was at that moment, hearing, _watching _Valjean that he unwittingly came undone, untouched and aching in his trousers.

Letting out a cry, an approximation of Valjean’s name, he gasped for air and brought his lips instead to Valjean’s cock. Dragging his tongue from the base to the tip, he worked it into his mouth, and quickly found himself swallowing spend as Valjean canted his hips with a broken yell.

Before Javert could hope to catch his breath again, lying on Valjean’s stomach, he was pulling him up between his legs, languidly kissing him. Something in him wanted to protest, to remind Valjean of where his mouth had been, but the kiss was so earnest that he was compelled not just to allow it, but to return it.

They laid there, breathless as Valjean ran his fingers through Javert’s now disheveled hair. With shaking legs and drunken laughs, they soon made their way to the bedroom, discarding any remaining clothing and falling into deep, undisturbed sleep.

* * *

The sun was already high when Valjean groggily woke in the morning to the thought of Javert’s mouth between his legs, hair falling messily from his queue. Warmth gathered in his face as he recalled it, not as an image in his mind, but a genuine memory. The covers atop him were all too constricting, but he could not say the same of the arm draped over his back.

He was an early riser in contrast to Javert, who took his time escaping the lull of sleep each morning. Left to his own devices, Javert was liable to be up at all hours of the night before he could find rest. It was one of the many small things Valjean continued to learn of Javert the longer they lived lives intertwined. Piecing them together created something else, not something whole necessarily, but different even so.

It was never his intent to ask anything of Javert. Perhaps it was better if he kept the night to his reveries, to never mention it again. He need not force upon Javert that which he did not care for; it was distasteful enough that he had requested it to begin with. The shame, so easily tossed aside in the haze of passion clouding his head, returned to him in waves.

As it washed over him, Javert cradled him, curled around his spine with an arm stretched over his shoulder to hold him to his chest. Deep breaths went in and out against his neck. It brought to mind Javert, breathless, tongue running up his stomach until it found him—

Uncomfortably, he could feel the heat in his face move lower, a weight on his thigh.

_Good Lord, _he thought, drawing in his breath sharply.

At that, Javert began to stir, running his hand over his breast and pulling him closer with a huff. Valjean knew him well enough to tell he was half awake from the way he idly petted with his hand, the way their legs began to tangle together beneath the sheets. He chose to stay silent though, momentarily savoring the feeling of Javert against him, barely any space between them. It was Javert who broke it first, mumbling into the skin on the back of his neck.

“G’morning,” he said, pressing a kiss at the edge where his white curls began. Valjean hummed, grasping his hand and absentmindedly rubbing circles into the valleys and wrinkles of his palm.

“It was good?” Javert asked, shyness painting his sleep-soaked words. “Last night?”

“I-“ Valjean startled, swallowing and lowering his voice. He was horribly aware of the hardness still sitting between his legs. “It was better than… than I imagined.”

Javert made a satisfied sound, kissing his neck more deeply. He rubbed his chest again, skirting over a nipple; Valjean let out a small noise at the touch, and he could feel Javert smile his wolfish smile into his neck. He was moving then, shifting under the sheets, letting his hand feather over his cock, and he well and truly gasped.

“Mmm,” Javert almost purred. “A wonderful imagination, indeed.”

Lazily, Javert worked the bedclothes down, already turning Valjean on his back and parting his thighs. Valjean could feel his face going entirely red down through his bare chest.

“Javert,” he said haltingly. “If you do not—it would be well if you did not enjoy it—“

He stopped, looking at Javert’s confused expression as he froze with his hands on Valjean’s knees. Then an incredulous laugh began to bubble from him, a noiseless, gum-filled laugh that made Valjean heat even further. Seeing Javert laugh, without abashment, was an abrupt gift each time it appeared. Secretly, Valjean committed each to memory, tracing every fold and dimple with his eyes. It was infectious, for Valjean could scarcely help the smile that began to spread on his face.

“What is so amusing?” he asked, unable to keep the laughter from his speech.

It took him several moments to compose himself, to speak between chuckles. “Of course, how could I—of course I enjoyed it. Did it look as if I was disappointed?”

“No,” Valjean conceded. “I suppose not.”

“I would be most grateful to know anything else you might think of in my absence,” Javert said, slowly ghosting his fingers over Valjean’s inner thigh. He shivered at the touch and smiled as Javert straddled him, pushing Valjean carefully back into the pillows.

“Won’t you?” Javert asked, leaning over him.

“…Should anything come to mind,” Valjean said. He pulled him down into a kiss as he felt something bloom in his chest, warm and hopeful of all the things to come.


End file.
